


Speak and be Heard

by lemonsharks



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Friendships, Epic Bromance, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 03:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7875268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/pseuds/lemonsharks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brosca's family is raised up to nobility, and Aeducan knows a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak and be Heard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [easybakedoodles (Madrugada98)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrugada98/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta M for the quick turnaround.

The ground trembles. 

The tightness in Faren Brosca’s lungs eases as he strips from helmet and armor, wipes his face with a cloth soaked in springwater. The cough and Leske’s curse pull him from his reverie-- _won the proving, escaped with his life_! 

He looks up into the bright eyes of some noble nuglet, guard beside him with sword drawn and a growl in his throat. 

“Gorim, stand down,” the noble says. 

Faren hisses.

“You can _fight_ , Brand,” he continues. “Do you have a _name_?”

  


Soldiers storm his home the night if his nephew’s birth, and Faren thinks he’s going to die. They roust him and his mother from bed and don’t allow them time to collect any of their things, not that they own much worth keeping. Beraht he glimpses from the corner of his eye in the commons, head up and smirking like he’s just shat lyrium.

The early hours pass in a blur of sweet-scented baths, surface silks and jewels dripping from his neck and fingers and the mantle on his shoulders. It keeps slipping out of place, and Faren thinks he _must_ have died as he twitches underneath the finery. 

Rica, when he sees her with her baby at her breast and her hair plastered to her head with dried sweat, is happier and more beautiful than he’s ever seen her. 

“We did it,” she says. “We did it, and look at us now.” 

  


“You’ll always be marked, you know.” The youngest Aeducan prince lounges, leans back against a carving in the great hall. His name is Duran, and he greets Faren with arms clasped at the elbow and a hearty _Stone-met_. 

He _knows_ , and the question is, _will he_ tell _?_ Will he jeopardize his nephew’s status with Faren’s recklessness? 

“What do you mean I’ll be _marked_?” 

He knows. Faren wants to hear Duran Aeducan say it. 

“People up here will always see the brand before they see the face. They’ll say you don’t belong here, but I’ve seen you at your best. And I disagree.”

He shoves off the carving and disappears into the crowd of people here to celebrate little Endrin’s birth and survival this first few months. He’s a strong little boy--big for a dwarf baby, hearty. His father is pleased. 

  


Duran Aeducan calls him _Brother_ and puts a sword in his hand. They go to the practice courts at the edge of the Diamond Quarter, with Gorim to act as official and judge. 

“I won’t hold back,” Faren says.

“Good.” Duran grins. “I’d skewer you if you did.”

“With a _mace_?”

“I’m clever like that.”

Faren laughs, and dives blade-first into the fight. He draws blood on his second strike, and takes a spiked mace head to the bicep not long after, but they’re playing to the yield, not to the blood. 

Gorim tries to halt the match, but Duran waves him off with a laugh, and circles, strikes. Faren blocks with the flat of his blade. It brings them chest to chest, and he thinks for a moment they might both drop their weapons and grapple. He would win a wrestling match, he’s sure. 

Duran drops back, loosens his shoulders, and meets Faren’s flinty eye. He yields. 

“I want to know where you learned to fight like that,” he says.

Faren replies, “Around.” 

Duran laughs, long and loud and teary-eyed. 

Faren thinks the response can’t have been as funny as the person it came from, and when he tries a scowl the corners of his lips twitch up. 

“We’re going on a Deep Roads expedition soon. I want you there with us.” 

  


From that day Faren finds himself included in the prince’s training with his soldiers. 

They’re up with the cries of _first hour!_ , swords in hand and helmets on heads, a single body of warriors and nobles and one hidden brand. 

Afterwards they eat and drink together, Faren at Duran’s right elbow and Gorim at his left, glaring; they take turns telling stories over long-roasted nug and deep mushrooms and overflowing mugs of surface mead. 

Faren keeps his peace; his stories are too coarse for his ascended company.

  


“You aren’t fit to fight at the prince’s side,” Gorim tells him one hot morning. 

He’s made the mistake of taking his helmet off, but he’s sure that Duran’s second would have known with or without the armor. 

“And yet, here I am, a member of House Aeducan myself.”

It’s the first time he’s used his new status in argument, but he wants this one over quickly and pulling rank seems the way to go. 

Gorim scowls and says, low, “You’re no Aeducan.” 

“And you? Is the prince’s second intimidated by a brand?”

Gorim takes offense, and Faren tells himself: _I meant him to_. 

  


There’s no proving this time, and while he knows he’s owed Gorim’s respect it isn’t as simple as demanding it. They circle one another in the gravel training court, visors down and swords out. 

As the challenged party Faren chooses the weapons: the Duster’s twin short swords he’s used all his life. To Gorim, he gives a heavy handaxe, and hopes he’s faster than the second is strong, but he wants the fight to be a fair one. 

Duran scowls at the edge of the dueling circle, muttering about warrior caste honor and fool brothers who ought to know they’re good enough already. He ignores the words, loud enough to hear this far away on purpose. 

  


Faren moves in darts and dashes, keeping to Gorim’s flanks. 

“They’re _both_ idiots,” Duran says from the side. 

Gorim lunges, and his axe glances off Faren’s armor. If they were fighting darkspawn, the archers would take out the first wave and the warriors would charge the second. They would work for speed, not elegance, and Faren respects that--it’s not unlike the fighting he grew up with in Dust Town. 

This is another thing entirely; Gorim’s focused on showing off. Faren strikes and doubles back, with sharp blades and quick hands--no blood, but close this time. Gorim has better stamina, better reach with his axe, though he declined a shield.

He moves in and stabs at Faren with the crown of the axe, and Faren stumbles backward; not-quite a dirty move, but not an honorable one, either. At least, not in Faren’s book. 

The blades are live and they fight to first blood, and in the fevered battle Gorim leaves himself open for a bare second. Faren slices his flesh and dances away. 

Gorim freezes and lunges once more, then stops. Drops his axe. Examines the blood dripping from beneath his vambrace. He rips his helmet off, face dripping sweat and battle-red, 

“Am I good enough to fight at your side? Am I good enough to defend the honor of House Aeducan and the life of its prince?”

Pretty words for a duster, and they feel like hot sand in Faren’s mouth, but Gorim nods once and stalks from the court. 

“You great fool,” Duran says, but he has an edge of laughter in his voice that he can’t conceal. “Gorim’s the single best warrior of his generation, and you--you--”

His face is alight, eyes sparkling brown and wide mouth curved into a grin. “You have to show us all duster fighting--you--”

“Would very much like a drink, my lord.”

“Of course,” Duran says. “Gorim will like his wounds for a few days but he’ll respect you after this, I’m sure of it. Come on, we have so much to talk about! The expedition to plan!”

 _This_ , Faren thinks, _is what a friend who_ trusts _you looks like_. 

He thinks he could get used to it. 


End file.
